Making Memories
by moonlighten
Summary: 2014: England needs to declutter his house. He should have known better than to ask Scotland for help. (And he probably shouldn't have invited Wales along either, come to that.) (Gen.) Multi-chapter, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.  
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January, 2014; London, England**

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Every New Year's Day morning – or, more often than not, early afternoon – England's first act is to swallow two paracetamol, wash them down with at least a pint of chilled water, and then spend a moment or two regretting the previous night and rueing his poor life choices.

His _second_ act is to take up the nearest piece of paper to hand and write a list of New Year's resolutions whilst that deep sense of shame still lingers.

The first is invariably: _Drink less._

The second: _Give up smoking. For good, this time._

The remainder of the list varies from year to year. 'Get more exercise' if he's feeling particularly slothful; 'Eat healthier food' if his stomach is churning or the extra pounds he habitually piles on over the festive period are more noticeable than usual.

Just as invariably, he will have broken each one before the month is out, and the shame returns, tinged now with failure and self-recrimination, lingering until the season turns and the brightening days of Spring inspire a corresponding brightening of his mood

This year, his first resolution was to be kinder to himself and set more reasonable goals that don't require him to turn his whole life upside down or attempt to change his essential nature. His newest list should be far easier to accomplish; each change is small but attainable, improving his life in increments rather than attempting to overhaul it completely.

Halfway through January, he'd already achieved two of his goals – 'cut down number of sugars in tea' and 'take stairs rather than lift at work' – and buoyed by these early victories, flushed with pleasure at his success, he felt confident enough to tackle one of the more taxing and time-consuming of his resolutions.

'Declutter the house'.

Whilst England would never want his home to be a sleek chrome and leather paean to modernity like France's apartment is – and cold, empty and _soulless_ as a consequence, to England's mind – he does find himself envying how simple it must be to keep it clean and organised. England's entire house is a dust trap writ large, and he's forever losing things in it, not because he's especially careless or forgetful, but because he has so much _stuff_ that anything set down for a moment or two is in danger of being absorbed into his centuries-worth of accreted possessions and thence disappearing beyond hope of easy recovery. He's misplaced countless important documents that way, along with near every pen he's ever owned.

Determined to be rigorous about the task, he'd hired a skip and vowed to throw out anything that isn't useful, or beautiful, or particularly meaningful to him.

Even so, he'd thought it best to ease himself into it by tackling one of his smallest rooms first: the box room which had once been Northern Ireland's, now designated an overflow storage space. Every item he picked up recalled a snatch of happy memory and seemed too important to toss away, though. A motheaten teddy bear that once belonged to Australia; a book that was a gift from Portugal; even his old fishing tackle (a hobby he recalled he'd once thoroughly enjoyed and newly intended to take up again): each one felt precious and each one joined his 'To Keep' pile.

By the end of a week, that pile was more of a tower, the skip was still empty, and England admitted he may need some help.

He probably should have selected that help a little more wisely.

Wales, at least, appears at his door at the appointed time equipped with a pair of marigolds, a stack of packing boxes, and a can-do attitude.

Scotland arrives an hour later with nothing more than a surly expression to his name, and immediately stomps into the kitchen to demand a cup of tea.

"You can make it yourself; Wales and I are far too busy," England calls back from the depths of the pantry where he has spent the past ten minutes energetically and aggressively pruning his stores of dried goods in atonement for wasting the previous fifty drinking tea and complaining to Wales about Scotland's dilatory habits and poor time-keeping skills. "You know where the kettle is."

Scotland's stomping and grumbling grow louder, culminating in him sticking his head around the pantry door. "You should make tea for your workers; it's just good manners. I bet you've never let a plumber or electrician go without, have you?"

"No," England has to admit, "but you haven't actually done any work yet, Scotland. And, besides, you're not working for me, you're _helping_. Not everything in this house is mine. You and Wales left half of your belongings here when you moved out, cluttering up my attic."

"And where would I put them, exactly? We're not all lucky enough to live in fucking mansions, England."

He sounds accusatory, as though this is some vast injustice England has perpetrated against him; as though he was slung out of the family home on his ear and didn't instead choose to move to his little terrace house on the outskirts of Edinburgh the instant the opportunity presented itself.

As such, it's tempting to respond, 'You can shove them up your arse, for all I care!', but England doesn't want to risk antagonising Scotland, at least not this early in the proceedings when he's liable to turn around and stomp straight back home again without doing his fair share of the hard graft first.

So, he swallows back his irritation, stretches his lips into something approximating a smile, and says, "You could always rent a storage unit. Or throw them away if you don't want them anymore, like I'm doing."

Before England has chance to protest, Scotland lunges forward and grabs the bin bag out of his hand. He rummages through the contents, and then triumphantly holds aloft a bottle.

"Aye, because it's such a great _sacrifice_ and _hardship_ to chuck out a bottle of vanilla extract that went off in" – he peers at the peeling label – "1998. Or" – he resumes his rummaging – "a tin of kidney beans from 2005. Jesus, England, you should have got rid of this shit years ago, anyway. It's a wonder you've never given yourself food poisoning.

"I noticed you haven't put anything else in your skip."

Of course he did. He no doubt couldn't resist the urge to have a good nosey at its contents – or lack thereof – so he could better judge England's efforts and find them wanting before he even stepped foot in the house.

"I just want to be careful about this," England says, manfully not rising to Scotland's obvious bait once more. "Thorough. There's no point rushing it and doing a half-arsed job, is there?"

Scotland answers with a wordless hum which sounds distinctly, irritatingly, sceptical. He throws the bin bag down at England's feet and retreats to the kitchen proper. The bubble and hiss of the kettle boiling follows shortly thereafter, then the muted clinking of teaspoon against crockery. When he reappears in the pantry, though, he's carrying just one mug.

England glares at it meaningfully; Scotland rolls his eyes. "You should have said if you wanted one," he says.

England would have thought it only polite to make tea for everyone present unless they specifically asked to forgo the pleasure, but then Scotland _is_ an uncivilised lout who…

England takes a deep breath and uncurls his fingers from the instinctive clenched fists they have formed.

… Who didn't _have_ to come here. He could have said 'no', after all. He must have, on some level – some deep, likely subconscious level – wanted to help, and England should be grateful for that. _He is_.

"It's all right," he says through gritted teeth. "I've not long had one."

"Well, the kettle's still hot, if you change your mind." Scotland takes a sip of his own tea with obvious, vicious enjoyment. "Shouldn't take long to boil again."

"Right," England says, and then he deliberately turns his back on Scotland, busying himself with reading the 'best before' dates on a pyramid of baked bean tins to drown out the urge to smash the ill-gotten mug into his brother's face.

For a moment, the silence is broken only by Scotland's pointed, clearly exaggerated slurping, and then he asks, "Where's Wales?"

And of course that would be his next question; the concern upmost in his thoughts. "In North's old bedroom," England says stiffly.

Scotland doesn't ask whether England needs any help in the pantry, or if there's anything else in particular he wants him to do. No, he swivels immediately on his heel and heads upstairs. Judging by the echoing thud of his heavy footfalls, the pained creak of the ageing floorboards overhead on the second-floor landing, he heads straight to the box room to join Wales.

Of course.  
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After finishing up in the pantry, and with no small amount of trepidation attendant, England also makes his way to the box room, in order to check on his brothers' progress there.

He expects them to have been shirking their duties – to have dawdled, procrastinated, sat around with their thumbs up their arses and got nothing done – but he is surprised, shocked, _horrified_ to discover that his 'to keep' mountain has disappeared, replaced by a pile of bulging bin bags.

"What the fuck?" he says to Scotland. "Were you intending on just throwing everything away?"

Scotland glowers at him, unrepentant. "It's all crap. You can't possibly want to keep this shit, never mind _need_ any of it."

"It is not crap," England insists. He opens the nearest bag to hand, digs down through the – admittedly, somewhat worthless – layers of old magazines and worn-out clothing until he finds his fishing tackle box, which he presents to Scotland as evidence. "This is a perfectly good kit."

"You haven't fished for sixty years," Scotland counters.

"I've been meaning to start again," England says.

"Aye, so you've been saying for the past _fifty-nine years_. Face facts, England, if you haven't done it by now, you're not going to. And if, by some, small miracle, you do get around to it, you won't be using _that_. It's practically an antique. I bet everything in it's either rusted together or rotted through by now."

Scotland might well be right; England hasn't yet opened the box to check whether any of the lures, hooks, or lines it contains are still useable. That is not the point, though, and he turns again to the bag in search of more proof to demonstrate it properly.

"Here." He plucks out Australia's old bear next. "You can't possibly think _this_ is rubbish. Australia used to love this bear; he carried it everywhere and—"

"Aye, and he was rough on it, too. Look at the state of it!" Scotland says, scornful and dismissive, because he's a hard-hearted bastard whom England suspects doesn't possess an ounce of proper sentimentality in his over-sized body. "All the fur's worn away, half of its stuffing's gone, and it's growing fucking mould on its ears.

"You used to hate that thing! You bought him another one to replace it, remember, because you were convinced he'd catch the plague off it or something. And that one's still in the bloody museum you've turned the weans' old room in to."

Which is also technically correct, but England can't help but feel strangely fond of the filthy old thing now, faced with the prospect of losing it forever. He wraps his arms around it.

"Don't be stupid, England," Scotland says, his eyes narrowing. "It's disgusting."

"It's Australia's." England pulls the bear closer against his chest when Scotland attempts to take it off him. Scotland grabs hold of its legs and pulls right back. "He might want it back."

"Australia's a grown man; I doubt it," Scotland says. "And if he did suddenly decide he was in dire need of a teddy, he'd want the other one. The one that isn't _rotting_. But you wouldn't let him have that, would you? Not and break up your collection."

"I could fix it," England says, a little desperately.

"No, you couldn't," Scotland says. "It's beyond help at this point."

He suddenly yanks at the bear. England tightens his grip on it, and yanks just as hard in the opposite direction.

The bear tears in two, ripping clean along the fraying stitches around its midsection.  
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Although England would have liked to hold Scotland down and force-feed him every last one of the sad, remaining scraps of Australia's old bear, he allows Wales to persuade him to instead put some distance between the two of them until their tempers have cooled.

It's Wales' customary advice in situations such as this, and customarily, England ignores it, but after a half-hour or so of ranting, raving, and kicking inanimate objects he wishes were Scotland's head, he can grudgingly admit what he'd known was true from the start: Scotland and Wales had done a good job.

He'd known that all of the things in the box room were junk – it's why they'd washed up there in the first place – he just hadn't been able to summon the determination and the impetus to make that last, very final step and dispose of them. Amazingly, it seems he was also right about Scotland's potential usefulness here, and it would still be counterproductive to risk chasing him away prematurely.

He doesn't admit as much to Wales, though, grudgingly or otherwise. What he says instead is: "He's a wanker. Doesn't care about anyone's feelings but his own."

Wales squeezes his shoulder in one of his, equally customary, lukewarm attempts at comfort. "Okay, I'll admit that he could have been a bit more diplomatic about it, but… He's right. If you're going to do this, you should do it properly. You're going to have to be ruthless.

"You'll feel better for it, believe me. I did the same thing at my house a few months ago, and I found it very cathartic. I don't lose my car keys half as often as I used to, either."

"You did?" England frowns, trying to remember if Wales' house had appeared any less crammed full of sentimental nonsense and useless knick-knacks than it had in the past on any of his more recent visits. He honestly cannot recall if it did. "I hadn't noticed."

"Yes, well…" Wales' mouth tightens, and his voice become a little stiff. "Maybe I wasn't quite as ruthless as I could have been, then. But you should be. I think it'll feel good to clear everything out. New year, new start, and all of that."

Which is exactly what England had been hoping to achieve with that particular resolution. He nods, freshly determined. "Come on, then. Why don't we go make a start on the attic and leave Scotland to deal with the rest of the bedrooms, seeing as though he seems to have that in hand already."  
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Everything runs far more smoothly after that. England finds it much easier to be as 'ruthless' as he needs to be in the attic, by and large because most of the items stored there were already ones that he'd previously deemed unworthy of taking up space in one of the proper rooms in the house, so they were one foot out of the door already, so to speak.

He has neither the time nor the inclination to embark on trawling through one hundred and twenty-seven years-worth of pictures today, so his personal collection of photographs remains untouched (and, besides, Northern Ireland has always enjoyed looking through them, so it's the one task England thinks him better equipped to assist with than either Scotland or Wales), but all the paintings he'd put aside with the vague idea of one day having their faded colours or cracked frames restored are consigned to the skip. Not a one of them had been fit to be hung up anyway, even when they had been in pristine condition. He can't think what possessed him to buy them in the first place, though it was most likely strong spirits.

Gone too are the two broken chairs from a dining set he used in the 1950s – the rest long since disposed of – the offcuts of carpets he tore up decades ago, the old shabby curtains he'd once contemplated repurposing into cushion covers but since forgotten about, and boxes upon boxes full of instruction booklets for long-obsolete technological gadgets, most of which he can't even remember having owned now.

Wales surprises him by being just as ready to have his own possessions binned, including the chest full of old clothes he'd insisted on keeping in case they came back into fashion one day – 'What does it matter if they do?' he says now. 'I've never been fashionable, anyway.' – and even a collection of leather-bound books with crumbling, yellowed pages in which he'd written poetry not long after he first moved into England's house ('embarrassing juvenilia' he terms them, despite having been well into his second millennium when they were composed).

There aren't actually that many of Scotland's belongings to be found, it turns out; just a few scraps of old armour and a scattering of swords. They're so corroded after being left for more than a century in the cold, damp environs of the attic that it's a wonder that they hadn't disintegrated into dust long since. England dons a pair of gardening gloves and gingerly scoops them all up – he's fairly certain that he's immune to tetanus along with every other human disease, but one can never be too careful – and deposits them in the skip.

Two of the swords return around a quarter of an hour later, clutched in Scotland's hands when he bursts into the attic, red-faced and scowling, his eyes glittering with malevolent intent.

"You wee shite," he growls, brandishing both swords at England. "Why the fuck are you throwing my weapons out?"

"Because they're rusty." England smirks at his brother, and it's petty, more than likely beneath him, but he's never been able to resist the hot rush of gratification, of triumph, he feels whenever he's handed the opportunity to turn Scotland's own words against him. By now, it's practically a reflex action, and not one he's inclined to try to be the bigger man and repress when he's got a sharp piece of rusted metal pointed at the hollow of his throat. "Because they're almost _rotted through_. They're useless, Scotland."

"What gives you the right to…?" Scotland's jaw tightens, and he thrusts one of the swords into England's hand. "We'll fight for it. If I win, the swords stay up here; if you win, they stay in the skip. Okay?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Wales puts in from the side-lines. "You're being ridiculous."

Scotland pays him no heed and swings his sword. England raises his own to meet it.

The blades both shatter on impact.

Scotland stares down at the hilt still clutched in his hand and lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, fuck this," he spits, hurling it down to the floor.

He storms back downstairs, and a moment later, the distant thud of the front door slamming shut drifts up from below. He's either gone for one of the habitual strops around the block he'd used to indulge in when they still lived together and he wasn't getting his own way, or else fucked off back home again. England doesn't much care which one it is: the box room's clear, the pantry's sorted, and they've pretty much finished in the attic. Presuming that Scotland was actually working his way through the rest of the bedrooms during his hours' long absence, they have very little left to do, anyway. They don't need him anymore.

"Right," he says, before Wales has chance to moan and lament about their behaviour, as his sad, disappointed expression suggests he is on the verge of doing. "Downstairs we go. You make a start in the library; I'll take the cellar."  
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England is about halfway through sorting his huge stockpile of paint cans – the majority of which are dry, but don't match a single wall in the house, in any case – when he hears the cellar door open and then close again, the sound of a light tread on the stair.

He looks up, thinking it must be Wales, but instead sees Scotland. He scowls.

"There's nothing of yours down here," he says. "I don't need your help. Wales might, though. He's in the library, if you want to ask."

"I already did," Scotland says. "And he told me that you'd found a box of my old spellbooks down here you wanted me to go through."

"I never said anything of the sort. What the hell is he playing…?"

England trails off with the realisation that he knows _exactly_ what Wales is playing at. He probably sent Scotland to him in the faint hope that all would be forgiven once they set eyes on one another again, and they'd fall into each other's arms full of tearful apologies or some such claptrap.

"Well, he lied," England says, because he has no intention of forgiving or apologising. Not unless Scotland does so first. "You can piss off now."

Whilst England is certain that nothing would give Scotland greater pleasure than to do so – except perhaps kicking England in the bollocks and then pissing off – he dithers at the bottom of the stairs, regardless, presumably torn between his desire to get away from England and join Wales, and his stubborn aversion towards obeying anything that has even the faintest whiff of a command coming from England.

His lips part on what England assumes will be an insult of some kind, but England has no wish to hear it. He marches past Scotland, up the stairs, and wrenches open the door, intending to leave himself if Scotland insists on lingering around like a bad smell.

Or, at least, he attempts to wrench the door open. It refuses to budge. Even after he's jiggled the door handle, yanked on it, and even given the door a few good, hard kicks.

"What the hell?" he mutters to himself, before attempting a simple unlocking spell. It fizzles uselessly against the iron keyhole escutcheon.

He tries a more complex version of the same spell, and then, in frustration, hurls a small fireball at the door. That, too, disperses harmlessly into nothing more than a shower of sparks and a small cloud of sulphurous mist, leaving the wood unmarked.

He pauses, drawing deep on his own power and the power of his land pulsating beneath his feet, gathering his strength for another, more potent attack, but Scotland's heavy sigh distracts him, scattering his concentration before it can build.

"For fuck's sake; this is just sad. It's pretty bloody obvious what's going on." Without a breath of warning, he reaches over England's shoulder and slams one of his huge, ham-like hands against the door, palm flat. Light flares beneath it, racing across the wood and coalescing into brighter spots at each of the cardinal points. As the light fades, they reveal themselves to be runes. "_Et voilà_."

England blinks at the runes, still perplexed. "What on earth…?"

"You can be so dense sometimes, Runt." Scotland sighs again, in an exaggerated, put-upon fashion. "That's Wales' personal rune." He points to the swirling lines at the North point, which – when England squints and cranes his neck towards them – do seem vaguely familiar. "And this is clearly his spellwork.

"He's deliberately locked us in."


	2. Chapter 2

At the very back of England's cellar, concealed behind a door enchanted to blend seamlessly with the whitewashed walls and open only at his touch or by his will, lies his laboratory. There, he practices his art and stores those books which are too powerful and dangerous to be left in his library, where they might be picked up in all innocence by the ignorant or ill-prepared.

His collection has been many centuries in the making and is one of the most comprehensive – or so he's been led to believe – in the world.

It takes him a long while to transfer all the likeliest looking volumes from their shelves in the laboratory to the foot of the cellar stairs, where he piles them in four neat stacks, arranged by age, language, and author. Scotland doesn't offer to help and watches him work in silence, only bothering to stir himself after the last book has been put into place.

"What are you doing?" he asks then, sounding more amused than honestly curious.

England obliges him anyway. "Research," he says, hunkering down to sit cross-legged beside the stacks.

"Why?" Scotland asks. "What's the point? When was the last time any of us was able to break a spell cast by one of the others?"

"We _have_ managed it before."

"Aye, when we were weans, but we're all too good at magic now."

"It's not completely beyond the bounds of possibility, Scotland," England says shortly, annoyed by his brother's defeatist attitude. "If we apply ourselves properly, study—"

"Oh, so _that's_ why I got stuck as a kid for so long, is it?" There's no trace of amusement left in Scotland's voice now. "You and Wales just didn't try hard enough to change me back?"

England had thought they were long past that little incident, that the nasty curses they had hurled at each other in the aftermath of it had evened the scales between them on that score, but then Scotland has always nursed his grudges more tenderly than anyone else England has ever known.

"We did everything we could, as you well know," he says, not so much with the intention of placating his brother, or reassuring him, but of defending his own honour. "As did Ireland. The spell was just too strong."

"Just like the one that turned you into a dog or made it impossible for me to stop talking." He smiles smugly and fans out his hands with an extravagant flourish, like a stage magician revealing a trick: ta-da! _Quod erat demonstrandum_. "It's not going to work."

"It might," England insists. "And it's not like I have anything better to do, anyway."

_Other than talk to you_, remains unspoken but Scotland must have come to that conclusion too, regardless, as a moment later he crouches down next to England and picks up the nearest book to hand. He flicks through it quickly, eyes barely skimming the pages, and then does the same with the next one, and the next.

The fourth is barely a book at all, just an assortment of ragged scraps of parchment bound loosely together by a thin string of braided leather. He studies that one with far more care and then nudges insistently at England's arm with his elbow.

"See," he says, when England finally gets fed up enough of the jostling to put down his own book and glance towards him, looking for an explanation for his behaviour. "You _do_ have one of my books! I wrote this in… Fuck, I can't even remember which century." He smiles. "My handwriting really was appalling then. France used to say it looked like a drunk fly had got into my inkwell and then staggered all over the paper in its death throes."

Why the man is renowned as some form of romantic virtuoso, England will never know. His sweet talk clearly leaves a lot to be desired.

Having no wish to inspire any further 'fond' reminiscences of that ilk, England glides past the observation and asks, "Is there anything useful in there?"

"Naw. It seems as though I was pretty obsessed back then with trying to come up with spells which would make you shit yourself, or that would…" His words trail off, his face turning a singular shade of pink which is very telling.

France again, no doubt. And given the accompanying far-away look in Scotland's eyes, the memory he's caught is either disgustingly saccharine or mind-scarringly carnal. Either way, the thought of it turns England's stomach.

"Scotland," he snaps, trying to attract Scotland's attention away from whatever dark, terrible place it has wandered off to, but he just blinks at him slowly, obviously still dazed. Exasperated, England takes the book from his brother and replaces it with a far more innocuous one. "Get back to work."  
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Most of the spellbooks are written in a close, cramped hand using a host of esoteric shorthand – an attempt, on their long-dead authors' parts, to conceal their contents without rendering them completely indecipherable to their apprentices – and by the end of an hour, England's head is throbbing and his eyes are smarting from having to peer so closely at the pages in his efforts to translate them.

Scotland is similarly afflicted, judging by the way he keeps swiping at his eyes with the heels of his palms, but he has neither the patience nor the fortitude to suffer and struggle through the discomfort in the same way England does.

Eventually, he sets aside his book, stands, stretches, and says, "Fuck it, that's enough for now. I'm going give it a rest and drink some of your shame-wine."

"My… My _what_?" England asks, perplexed.

"Your shame-wine," Scotland repeats, unhelpfully. "The bottles you're so embarrassed about owning that you keep them hidden down here where France won't find them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," England says, striving to sound derisive, but his voice turns traitor, betraying him by breaking shrill on the last word. The smile Scotland offers him is unbearably knowing. "That rack's _down_ here because it's cool, dark, and just the right level of humidity. Perfect conditions, I'll have you know."

"Right," Scotland drawls. "And you've covered it with an old curtain because…?"

Because France would sneer and disparage England's palate if he were ever to learn the contents of the rack. It shames England to the core that he even cares what the frog thinks about such things, but he does all the same. To England's knowledge, France has never once set foot in the cellar but he _might_, and the curtain is just an added precaution were that unlikely event ever to occur.

England can't think of a plausible explanation for the curtain's presence other than that, though, so he can only stay damningly silent.

Scotland's smile broadens, and he tears back the curtain to cast his own judgement on the bottles kept behind it.

"Jesus, England." He whistles through his teeth. "You should be embarrassed. This is a truly atrocious selection of wine."

"Oh, and you'd know, would you?" England says, tartly. "Because you're _such_ a connoisseur."

"I've never said that," Scotland says, "but you can't spend as much time with France as I do without picking up a thing or two about wine by osmosis, if nothing else." The bottles clank as he pulls them one by one from the rack and inspects their labels. "Hmm, cat's piss, methylated spirits, or turpentine? Which one to choose."

Ultimately, he takes all three and slumps down on the floor in the corner of the room with them. He twists the cap off a bottle of white and starts drinking.

For a while, England is able to tune Scotland out and concentrate on his reading – his good, sensible, needful reading – but the sound of him glugging blithely away at his wine soon becomes too distracting to bear.

The glare England bestows on his brother is meant to make him aware of England's great displeasure, but Scotland only laughs at it.

"Why don't you take a wee break?" he says. "There's a cheeky red here with your name on it."

"Scotland, I—"

"Come on." Scotland waves the wine towards England, enticingly close. " Get it down your neck."

Scotland is very pushy when it comes to imbibing alcohol, always has been, but England doesn't really need much in the way of encouragement. It's been three hours or more since his last cup of tea, and his throat is parched.

He holds out for a beat or two longer, so as not to appear too eager, and then snatches the proffered bottle.

"Fine," he says. "But just a sip."

The mouthful of wine he takes is so caustic that it feels to sear straight through the top of his mouth and into his sinus cavity. "Fucking hell," he splutters. "That isn't cheeky; it's downright _evil_."

Scotland shrugs. "You're the one who bought it."

Once the burning sensation passes, England finds the pain in his head has eased slightly. The wine may taste like something better used for cleaning toilets, but it's obviously a decent curative aside.

He drinks some more.  
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After polishing off the horrendous red wine, England drinks an equally vile bottle of white wine, and then a mediocre rosé to round out the selection. He's halfway through another red when the need to urinate assails him, quite urgently.

He closes his eyes and tries to force the sensation down, ride it out. He's not human, and the demands of his body aren't real, just a lie he trained himself to believe in his youth so he could better blend in with his people and understand their concerns.

His body is nothing more than a shell. He is above it. He…

Is fucking _bursting_, and there's no way he's going to piss in one of the empty paint tins – which are the only viable option on offer – especially not in front of Scotland.

He springs to his feet. The room whirls vertiginously around him, his vision momentarily blanks out, and his legs feel like half-set jelly, but he still manages to stagger to the cellar door after a few false starts and a small pause to contemplate throwing up.

He hammers his fists against the wood, and calls out, "Wales!" Another pause to listen for the sound of footsteps in the kitchen before he resumes his banging, and then: "Wales! Open the fucking door, you wanker! This isn't funny anymore!"

"He won't hear you," Scotland says. "It's nearly nine o'clock; he'll have nodded off in front of the telly or something by now." He chuckles. "He's such an old man."

England knows he's right, but just in case, he knocks, shouts, and knocks some more until both his throat and his knuckles are sore. Satisfied he's done all that he can, then, he gives up and rejoins Scotland, sitting huddled by the wine rack.

England can't find a comfortable position himself; however he arranges himself, some part of his clothing or his own body seems to be pressing against his stomach, squeezing on his bladder. The ache is excruciating, and he shuffles his weight restlessly in an effort to relieve it.

Scotland raises one of his eyebrows archly. "If you need a piss, you should use one of the old paint tins," he says. "I already have."

England hadn't seen him do so, though he's hardly been watching him like a hawk. He may have closed his eyes for a moment or two, perhaps three, but still… "How on earth did you manage that?" he asks. "I never noticed you."

"I am the phantom pisser," Scotland says, with every indication of seriousness. "It's my superpower."

And then he laughs, raucously and for far longer than the statement deserves. He only ever laughs that way when he's a very particular sort of drunk; a sort of drunk that England rarely experiences himself, but that both Wales and France have assured him is a regular occurrence when he's not around.

The sort of drunk that makes him loose, relaxed, and free with affections, dispensing hugs and matey backslaps to all and sundry, though not usually England. Not never, but not usually, either.

Given their current situation, England would have thought such a cheerful mood was beyond him, chemically induced or otherwise. "I can't believe you're not angry about all this," he says.

"You know as well as I do that Wales ends up doing something like this every couple of years or so," Scotland says, shrugging. "Gets to the end of his tether with us and just snaps. He'll have got over it by the morning and let us out, even if we haven't been down here making each other friendship bracelets or whatever the hell else it is he thinks we should be doing. There's not much we can do about it before then, so why worry?"

England snorts. "If it'd been me who'd done this, you'd want my head on a pike. You forgive him far too easily"

"Probably," Scotland says. "But then he is a lot nicer than you."

It's hardly a revelation that Scotland thinks that way; even when they were all children and Scotland treated them both like they were annoying burdens he couldn't wait to be rid of, he'd always been kinder to Wales. Never smacked him as hard or shouted at him as loudly. Favoured him.

It's only got worse over the centuries, with their private chats and private jokes and their constant visits to each other's houses that they never bother to invite England along to. Normally, it doesn't bother him – he doesn't _let_ it bother him – but his bladder is about to explode, and he's woozy, nauseated, and far too cold. Quite frankly, he just wants his bed, and being denied that makes him feel petulant and childish for it. Childish enough to _care_.

And something of that petulance, that resentment, must show in his expression because Scotland's own face softens and he groans quietly. "Jesus Christ, do we have to do this every couple of years, too?" he says. "Look, _bràthair_, Wales doesn't hate you. _I_ don't hate you." His smile returns, small and a little lopsided. "The _urusig_ do think you're a bit of a prick, though, and I wouldn't want to put words in France's mouth."

Which wasn't what England had been concerned about. Not really, and not this time. "But—"

"But nothing, England." Scotland wraps his hand around England's wrist, his grip surprisingly gentle, and fixes him with a terrible, earnest look. "I love you."

"So you always say." And he does, but England has never quite been able to believe him, as his actions so often speak differently. "You don't like me very much, though, do you?"

"Liking and loving are two entirely different things," Scotland equivocates.

England doesn't think so, but before he has chance to argue to point, Scotland yanks hard on his arm, pulling him off-balance. At the same time he falls forward, Scotland falls back, and England ends up sprawled out at his brother's side, his head bouncing to a rest against Scotland's chest. Scotland hooks an arm around England's shoulders, holding him close and still, and so tightly that England can't hope to escape.

Scotland's thick Fair Isle jumper prickles against England's cheek, and this close he can't help but breathe in the scents trapped within the wool: cheap wine and fresh sweat, old dust and cobwebs, and beneath it all, something much sharper. Something clean, crisp and clear, like the cool waters of a loch. It's an ancient smell, and some small, long-buried part of England finds it comforting. He relaxes despite himself.

"You're a numpty," Scotland says. His voice rumbles deep through his chest, tickling at England's ear. "That little argument we had today, it's nothing; just piss in the wind. We've both killed each other more times than I can fucking count, but we're still here. Still trying." He plants one of his horrible, wet, smacking kisses against the crown of England's head. "And I still love you, no matter what."

It's a cloying sentiment, and England should pity him for it. The heat that pools in his chest, trickles down the back of his neck, feels a little like embarrassment, but not close enough to name as such, though.

Whatever it is, it inspires him towards magnanimity, and he says, "I don't hate you."

Scotland's laughter sounds to be shocked out of him, rough and explosive. "You can't give me an inch, can you?" He pulls England even closer, crushing all the air from his lungs, so he wouldn't have been able to make a reply even if he'd wanted to. "That's better than nothing, I guess. It'll do for a start."  
-

* * *

-  
When Wales calls his name, England stirs; swims a little closer to the surface of consciousness.

When Wales calls Scotland's name, he immediately sits bolt upright, seemingly without a single thought or care for the integrity of England's head, which is still pillowed against his chest.

England cracks the back of his skull hard against the floor when Scotland abruptly shifts out from under him, and the impact wakes him in an instant.

"Fucking hell, Scotland," he grouses, struggling up into a sitting position himself. His knees are aching even more than his head after sleeping on the flagstones, but Scotland looks as limber and alert as he always does early in the morning, never mind how much he might have overindulged the previous night. Whatever he might have told Scotland, he does hate his brother for that, if nothing else. "Watch what you're doing."

"Sorry," Scotland mumbles, distracted and off-hand, though England didn't expect any better – didn't hold out any hope for sympathy or true contrition – now that he's sober.

No matter what he says, his behaviour never changes, which is why England finds it so very hard to believe him.

"I brought you tea," Wales says, holding out two steaming mugs. "And there's bacon under the grill."

Scotland beams at him, grabs one of the mugs, and says, "You're a star, Wales." Not 'You're a dick,' or 'I'm going to kick your arse,' which is more in line with what Wales deserves. But then he _is_ the favourite. Always was. "Thanks."

He goes bounding up the stairs without a backwards glance, clearly ready and eager to forgive his mistreatment at Wales' hands in exchange for nothing more than a cooked breakfast.

As if it was ever in any question.

England's forgiveness is not so easily bought. He hesitates for long enough over taking his tea that Wales starts to look a little crestfallen, and then takes great pleasure in the discovery that it's slightly stewed and thereafter complaining about that fact.

"I'm sorry," Wales says. "About the tea and about… about last night. I just lost my temper, and I shouldn't have done it."

He looks apologetic, but then 'apologetic' is Wales' default expression and thus doesn't signify much. If he'd truly regretted his actions, then he could have come back at any point during the late evening or night and freed Scotland and England then and not – England checks his watch – twelve hours later. He knows his brother, knows his temper. Wales loses it only very occasionally, and when he does, it really does _snap_: a short, sharp burst of anger that's oftentimes violent, frequently messy, but over almost as soon as it had begun.

This hadn't been anger; it was a calm, calculated act of malice.

The ninth entry on England's list of resolutions, between 'Fix gutters' and 'Reread _War and Peace_' is 'Be nicer to Wales'. He intends to stick to all of them, so however tempting it might be to turn Wales into a rat or steal his voice in retaliation, he will rise above the temptation. Forgiveness might be beyond him for the moment, but he's sure he can feign some pretence of it, and well enough to fool Scotland and Wales until such time as the forgetting sets in.

He thanks Wales stiffly for the tea and the promise of bacon to come, turns, and starts walking away.

"It worked, though, didn't it?" Wales pipes up from behind him. "The two of you seem to be getting along better now. I'm proud of you both!"

England doesn't think, just reacts. In between one step and the next, he sends a curse hurtling back over his shoulder.

Wales yells out his name in surprise. After the smoke has cleared, he squeaks.


End file.
